


Träume

by rynoa29



Category: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist
Genre: Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rynoa29/pseuds/rynoa29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the King of Time must stop to rest, whether he wants to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Träume

**Author's Note:**

> A short drabble I wrote on Tumblr once that I felt like uploading. Hope you enjoy~

It's not an experience he particularly enjoys, and yet—

Even a Demon King has to sleep.

It is a deep sleep. It always is. It's why he avoids it. But it's been too long since he's gone without and Mephisto has no choice but to let his eyes fall close now. He feels the exhaustion he's built up in this human body weighting him down. He allows his muscles to relax on the soft, silk covers of his bed, feels the relief that darkness brings to his head and his body. Days have passed since he's last laid like this. His one hour naps haven't done enough to keep his mind alert.

Of course, he knows why. These days, even the notion of short naps is something he's been—not dreading, because demons have little to dread, but…

Avoiding might be a better term.

He's nodded off at his desk for a quick couple of minutes, but he hasn't allowed himself to fall deeply into sleep lately. That type of sleep leads to dreaming, and dreaming is the last thing he's wanted to do.

Dreams are strange things. It's not a phenomenon solely restricted to humans. Indeed, even back in Gehenna, they still dreamt.

They dreamt of colors, dreamt of sensations and emotions, and for those who have snuck into Assaih, more tangible images crawled up into their short periods of respite.

As for Mephisto, who's roamed this world for centuries now, who's gathered experiences after experiences throughout this time, who's grown accustomed, fond even, of the human vessel he embodied—

He dreams of Shiro.

The man sneaks into his dreams like a plague that refuses to leave. The low rumble of his voice haunts him, mocks him. The white-haired man takes great pleasure in flashing his cocky smirk at him every moment Mephisto let himself rest. Gone is the meticulously palace of disorder the demon had built in his mind, gone are the rooms full of memories that displayed his eccentricities and the interests he's acquired in both past and present years. Instead, his dreams are now solely filled with the presence of that man—a man who no longer resides in the waking world; a man who is merely a ghost, constructed by the memories of their time together.

It is bizarre how great of an effect that man continues to have on him. Mephisto ponders on the reasons behind this, but the answers he arrives at never seem like enough.

_It's a pity that Lady Fate took you so soon. There was still so much of you I longed to explore, Shiro._

The thought is faint, barely audible under the voice of the white-haired paladin which echoes in his mind loudly, laughing, snarling, crying out under both duress and pleasure…

When Mephisto wakes up, several hours later, the dark bags beneath his eyes have softened, but the space beside him looks so broad and empty that it makes him frown. There is not a trace of cigarette smoke in the room, and the warm, intimate touch of Shiro's fingers running through Mephisto's hair as it belonged there, as if he had all the right to touch him, was, naturally, absent.

The next day, when Mephisto lies down for a short nap on his bed, he drags the full-sized body pillow he'd mail-ordered and cuddles it to sleep.


End file.
